Gram

And now for Gramma Sherman. Both of my grandparents I am writing about are my Dad's side of the family and I grew up next door.
Gram had her roses, almost too sweet - I preferred the carnations that Grampa mowed over just about every time but they always grew back. The roses were here and there in the yard. Two bushes grew up an arch shaped trellis. They also had tulips that bordered the house but I don't remember if they were her's they way the roses and carnations were.
Gramma was also the cook. She worked in the kitchen at the State School, most people in Dover worked at either the state school in Wassaic or the state hospital in Wingdale - the state school for mentally disabled, the state hospital for the mentally ill (though the words I grew up with weren't nearly as PC). We had a corner on the mentally disturbed and defective in our little part of the Harlem Valley.
Anywho, back to gram; remember gram - that's where this post started.
Gram was short and round and a fantastic cook. I remember chocolate mayonnaise cake (sounds weird but taste fantastic); apple pie that ruined any other apple pie for me (though my dad and I try to come close); and peach cobbler and bread pudding that are legendary but have never even been approximated since she died.
She lived with us the last few months of her life. She was happy and we saw her a lot.
When I was small she called me her Dolly.
"Come here Dolly and sit on my lap"
There was a huge maple tree in the front yard. Old and growing into the white picket fence that faced the road. Honey bees swarmed in and out of a large crevice about twelve feet up the tree. One day the rotting hollow trunk where the bees made their hive couldn't support the still live branches above and the complex of life crashed down, just missing the house by five feet. splintered maple, honey comb, and bees filled the yard.